Eidolon's Keeper
by goldenquilled
Summary: "Lost spirits are dangerous. They're lawless, untamed, and can only know to hurt the ones they love. Ben Drowned is no exception. In fact, he is the most stunning example of rampant sorrow I know. He needs you to guide him, to focus him, to give his powers a purpose. He needs you to be his Keeper."
1. The Keeper's Awakening

**A/N EDIT: I am no longer continuing this story. I'm keeping it up on this site for the people who do enjoy it, but if you're just now finding this, don't expect it to be completed.**

 **That being said, this story is a sequel to a completed fic called Screaming Underwater. It's a bit old, and in retrospect not my best work, but if you're looking for a Ben Drowned fanfic with an actual ending, that one might be a better idea. You don't have to read that story to read this one, but it's worth mentioning.**

Chapter 1: The Keeper's Awakening

The sky was marked only by the waxing moon on the night he was first found. Not even bright stars dared to obstruct the void that was midnight's heavens. The light of the great moon shone down onto him more than it ever had before, painting his already pale skin in its ghostly silver glow. There was no wind, not even the gentlest of breezes. It was as if time himself had been frozen in that exact moment, giving the world a chance to simply calm down and collect itself for what felt like it's very first time.

But even then, the storm continued on.

The boy hugged his toy tightly, its velvety beige and fallow fur soaking in his hot tears as he buried his face deeply into it. He nearly smelled its faint flowery scent, but it had long since faded away. Even still, the strongest of scents would not have been enough. For as he clenched his teary eyes shut, the overbearing smell of his surroundings burned in his nostrils. It was like overturned soil and raw iron, though he knew well enough that it was something else entirely. And just like that stench, the image he had seen moments ago, back when his eyes could still be pried open, lingered as an unwanted guest in his mind.

He had seen his bedroom, the one he had always lived in, and the same decor that had always been inside of it. But nothing was in its place. His belongings, small and large, had been hurled about, fractured and collapsed next to whatever they had been bashed against. Planks of wood from the walls and ceiling had broken through the drywall and onto the floor, burying any surviving possessions in heavy heaps of rubble. One of the walls, the only one with a window - although it had always been sloppily boarded up - had been completely demolished. Now instead of the small cracks of the window, he was given a gaping hole with which to appreciate the woods and the sky and whatever existed beyond them both.

And there was the man, just barely poking out of the debris. His sickly coloured skin had been streaked by rivers of the same deep dark red that also pooled below him, soaking into the soft tufted carpet. That was the smell that remained drifting. The smell that memories of honey and lilac perfume could not erase.

This was the smell of his father's blood.

He would not open his eyes. Not again.

"I'm s-so so-sorry," he hiccupped between sobs, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." He choked, and then burst into a stronger fit of tears. He did not need to glance twice to know that his father was dead. If he had not woken up by this time, there was no use in wishes or prayers. The boy would simply have to hope that the man did not feel a pain too great. Though really, he had no way of knowing.

Because despite all the chaos and destruction throughout the secluded little cabin, the boy and the bed he sat upon remained completely unscathed. He wasn't the one that was hurt. He wasn't meant to be hurt. The blast was formed in an act of defence, and it did exactly that. Now he was safe from harm, whether or not he truly wished it anymore.

The boy had very few cherished memories of his now-deceased father to look back on. Most happy thoughts involved his mother, but those memories had mostly faded long ago. Every other recollection seemed to involve screaming, pain, self-pity, and hatred for the man who inflicted it all. But this was never what he wanted. All he would admit to wishing for was his freedom to be a child. To go outside, to make friends, to have fun, to fail, to learn, to grow, to live.

Yes, that life would have been perfect.

At this point, I'm sure some of you believe he did it on purpose, or that some part of his subconscious truly wanted his father to die. And I know that, as the narrator, or storyteller, or whatever you wish to call me, I'm meant to give pure facts without any personal opinions in the way. But if anyone reading this cares about my own opinion, and I'm sure somebody must, then I'll say right now that I don't think he meant to kill him. Not that he was completely innocent even back then, but, well... I guess you'll find out eventually.

He could no longer tell if his tremors was due to his shaking sobs or the cold spring air seeping inside. Though no wind blew, the brisk air stung his bare skin, making him hug his toy tighter and tighter. He could have gone under the warm blankets of the bed he perched upon, but that would require him to move, and that was a step he was not ready to make yet. Movement meant he was real, and being real meant facing reality in full.

He stroked the soft fur of his toy, feeling its sleek, if slightly worn, material. Although he was reaching the age of twelve, he refused to hide his need for that stuffed animal at that moment, clinging to all the more joyous emotions it brought to him once before. After all, what boy wouldn't need comfort, knowing that he was a murderer?

To say he didn't care how it happened would be a lie. He just didn't understand why or howit happened. Explosions don't occur on their own, and they certainly aren't courteous enough to completely avoid children. But it was still his fault. Somehow.

The prior events hadn't even been something worth remembering. Nothing outwardly pleasant had happened, but also nothing terribly unfortunate. He had been in his room like he always was, sitting on his bed. His father was there in front of him, red-faced and hands clenched into tight fists, like he always was. He had been hollering about something children aren't supposed to understand. His dead-end job? The strain of having a child? How he would never find a woman who sympathized with him the way his lovely wife once could? It didn't matter in the end.

What mattered was that his father was at the verge of becoming violent, but not quite there. His face had contorted in a deep scowl that could not be replicated by any happy man, and his eyes seemed to be shadowed by a nonexistent black veil. The boy didn't quite cower, since he knew better than to show fear. He just tried to keep his head high and his expression neutral, despite his heart attempting to hammer its way through bone and flesh. The shouts of his father were barely heard over the voices in his head, all yelling _run, run run! While you still can, run!_ over and over and over again.

All this was nothing new.

And then it started. For reasons that did not really matter in the end - perhaps the man had seen the pinprick tears in the corners of his son's eyes? - his shouts became directed specifically at the boy, who could no longer bear looking into his enraged face. He ducked his head, making sure he could still see his father in his peripheral vision in case things escalated any more. Perhaps if he hadn't, and he had just closed his eyes and tolerated it, all the chaos, destruction, and bloodshed could have been avoided.

His father swung his fist, aiming directly at his son's face. The boy looked back up, eyes wide, just watching the muscled arm came at him at full force in a way that was both startlingly fast and unbearably slow. His heart burst into overdrive, and he let out a loud, desperate scream of pure panic.

But again, all this was nothing new.

What was new, however, was that the boy never felt the impact. Instead, his vision filled with a bright, blinding light for just a moment. His ears rang briefly, and then silence. When his senses came back, the room was already torn apart, and his father was a body and nothing more. Which brings us to where we first began, with a boy crying unscathed while surrounded by heaps of fresh rubble and debris.

He was safe. He was free. And his father was dead.

"Please," the boy said, barely above a whisper, "please, no." He was not a killer. He never wanted to be. But it seemed like he was never given another option. It had happened, somehow, and there was no way to change it.

"Well, aren't you an interesting sight?"

The boy froze as he heard the foreign voice. It was very much unlike that of his father's. This voice held a slight rasp in it, yet still sounded level and in control. He tried to convince himself to look up, to pry his eyes open again, but still he remembered the chaos around him. He kept himself perfectly still, or at least as still as he could, yet his poor heart began to race once more.

The voice laughed, despite the lack of humour in the air. "Ah, I see what's happening. It's always the same you know? Poor kid, bet you've got no idea." The words themselves made no sense to the boy, but the simple comment of ' _Poor kid'_ seemed to hold warmth and pity. It made his tense body ease, but only slightly.

"Now, I ought to wonder," the older man spoke as if to himself, but clearly still focusing on the boy, "Are you afraid of me? Or yourself?" Another laugh, this time louder and heartier. "I already know the answer, and I sure hope you do too. And you can open those eyes and look at me. It's not as bad the second time, and I hate talking to a wall."

Trying to calm himself, the young boy inhaled deeply, and slowly let the breath escape. He had no idea who this man was, and was given no real indication of who he could be. Everything about the situation seemed so very wrong, so much more than before when it was only him and his conscience. But something about his voice and the way he spoke to him made him seem like he could be trusted. Somehow.

Slowly he forced his eyes open, pushing his face away from the stuffed creature in his arms. His vision was bleary from the tears. He blinked, and blinked again, until he could finally see the world around him.

He forced himself not to look at the wreck around him, though he could not help but notice how the dim lighting from the ceiling had been replaced by the silver-blue moonlight. He locked his gaze on the man, who stood in front of him with a crooked yet gentle smile. He was an older man, much older than him and his father combined, yet did not show any obvious physical weathering as he stood tall with health and confidence. While nothing about his face looked obviously wrong, something about the shape of it made him easily recognizable, like he could always be spotted in a large crowd. He decided that he liked the face, if only for wearing a smile he desperately needed in such a time.

"That's better," the older man said comfortingly, but then burst into a jolt of laughter. "Boy, you sure picked the worst night to awaken. Honestly, I wouldn't have risked coming here if I weren't so worried for you. Glad I did, though. You seem like a keeper."

The boy blinked. Awaken? What could that mean? Could he be referring to the destruction he somehow caused? The man _was_ acting eerily calm about the whole situation, as if the fact that there was a boy crying in a heap of rubble and a dead man off to the side was exactly what he was expecting.

The man laughed again heartily, which was starting to become a common theme with him. "You know, for someone who's not a talker, you sure have a way of wearing all those little words on your face. Don't worry, I'll help you with that," he said kindly, if a tad bit ominously. "There's a whole bunch of commotion on the other side of this little forest. Had me worried you'd been caught. Good thing I was wrong, I'd say."

Again the boy glanced outside, trying to imagine any sort of activity in such a still night. If there was anything happening, it was still very far away. "C-commotion?" the boy finally spoke timidly.

The old man smiled at the sound of his voice. "Yep. A search party, some police cars, maybe even some local news at this point. Thought they'd be all over this place, but I guess you were just far enough from them." The man then frowned. "Turns out some fellow heard his son sneak out of the house. A whole bunch of people got involved trying to find the kid."

"Oh," the younger boy muttered, quickly followed by his heart sinking deep into his chest as he realized just what the implications of this were. If his home were just a little bit closer to the search party, or them less distant, they could have heard as he somehow completely upturned a fat chunk of his quaint little cabin home. They would have came, seen the wreckage, seen the dead body, and seen him completely unscathed with his favourite plush toy. Instead of having at the very least a moment to mourn, to regret, and to muddle, he would have immediately been asked question upon question he either didn't know the answer to or wouldn't want to admit. He would have had to lie, or admit to somehow killing his father. All because of some random boy who wanted to sneak out during the night.

There was nothing but silence for a moment. A slight breeze flowed through the opening in the wall, the first real sign that time was continuing outside of the remainder of the boy's bedroom. Finally, the old man spoke, this time slow and level instead of jokingly. "Look, I know this probably isn't easy for you right now, but this is a blessing. Not many people can do what you just did, especially at your age. You can change the world with this kind of power, and for the better."

The boy looked into the old man's eyes. Only now did he notice that the right eye was covered by a milky veil. Blind, probably. "Who are you?" he finally found the nerve to ask. It was a question that asked for much more than a simple name. This man, whoever or whatever he was, was not normal.

Another laugh, returning him to his more amiable demeanour. "Well, isn't that a big question? I guess you ought to know, after all, seeing how I'm technically your guest." He winked at the young boy, as if divulging in some sort of inside joke only the two of them would understand. "My name has changed and changed over years and years, and for good reason. I've been so many people, it's sometimes hard to keep track. But nowadays I'm just called the Old Man," he smiled and stuck out his hand to shake.

And the young boy shook it, without any hesitation. "My name's Lu-"

"No, no," the Old Man said, though he still shook his hand firmly. "You won't be doing that anymore," he said almost as a warning as he retracted his hand. The young boy was about to question this, but the Old Man continued. "But I doubt you want just my name, do you?"

The young boy shook his head, still perturbed at his own name being denied. What was wrong with his name? It was harmless at its very worst.

The Old Man smiled. "I figured. You see, it's a bit too much of a danger to go on about the details here, but I can tell you a few things. Truth is, I'm just like you," his eyes seemed to glimmer with joy, "And creatures like us, we can do great things. So many great things, if only we've got the right guidance. You understand?"

The young boy nodded, hugging his stuffed animal not in sadness, but excitement and curiosity.

The Old Man laughed. "See, I knew you were a clever one. And to think I nearly looked you over." He glanced out into the open night, into the thick woods. No not the forest, but to the moon, which peeked out just above the canopy. "And we're not alone. Not at all. There may not be a whole army of magic users marching about- no, we're too rare to herd in a single place- but what there _is_ is an organization. An organization dedicated to spreading the truth about the world and how all of this works out in the grand plan, you see?"

He didn't see. Not even a little. But he did understand that there was a group of some sort, and the fondness in the Old Man's voice made it sound fascinating, and perhaps even a little mystical. So the boy lied and nodded.

A loud, bellowing laugh. "I knew it!" he exclaimed, "Not many can understand it. No, not at all. But you're better than the rest. I better keep you right with her, kid. She'll make you into something better than even myself." He then cast a strange glance to the boy, one he had never quite seen before. "Only if you trust me, of course."

It was then when he finally felt the weight. The words that the Old Man said meant something horribly vital, even if their meaning was encrypted. The moon's light shone down on the both of them, its waxen glow cradling him like a protective mother. That same glow illuminated the side of the Old Man's body, haloing him elegantly, as if he and the half-shrouded satellite were one and the same. He smiled at him, softly and delicately.

The boy exhaled slowly and deeply, and then looked into the Old Man's eyes. "I trust you." Which sounds pretty insane, but I think I've made it clear that this kid had a pretty small list of people he could trust.

Clapping his hands in excitement, the Old Man's careful smile morphed into a broad grin. "I know you do," he said happily.

Wasting no time, he scooped the boy's hand into one of his own, grasping rigidly. "C'mon, kid," he urged, "We better not dawdle much longer. Those cops'll get bored eventually, no matter the fuss you make. There's better places for you, anyways." The boy was tugged from his bed, landing on his feet and quickly being guided away from his broken little home. He held on tightly to the older man's hand, his other arm hooked around the stuffed toy he still held onto. He was guided towards the gaping hole where the wall once was, which displayed the rest of the world. Carefully they made their way out of the hole, feet touching soft green grass that quivered in a now noticeable breeze.

The young boy never noticed as he stepped right over the bloody, mangled carcass in the rubble. In fact, it would be a long time before he thought of his father again at all.

The Old Man led the boy through the trees, knowing exactly where to go without any trail or landmarks. The boy glanced around with wide eyes, now experiencing the woods he was raised within firsthand for the very first time. But though he wished to, he knew he wasn't spectating. He was searching. Searching for something that had been tugging at him on and on in his mind. He scoured the landscape with his ears and eyes, searching for any indication of police, or a search party, or some stranger's son son sneaking out into the night. But he found nothing.

"Sir?" the boy asked softly to the Old Man, "Can I ask a question? Just one?"

The Old Man continued to walk forth, yet he chuckled amiably. "Well, that depends on the question. Might as well try."

He swallowed, almost nervously, as if there was something that needed to be feared. "That boy. The one they were looking for. Why was there such a big search for him?"

Surprisingly, the man fell silent. For a brief moment, there was nothing but the slight ambient sounds of the woods surrounding them. Then, finally, "Well, no use hiding you from these types. Gotta get accustomed eventually. First of all, they found him."

The young boy was surprised by his own relief. He wasn't sure why he cared. But something told him that he should. Maybe it was because the other boy may have witnessed his literal outburst while sneaking out. Or maybe it was empathy. It was so hard to tell. Of course I know exactly why, being the one recounting the story, but I'll let you all figure it out yourselves. It shouldn't be too difficult.

The Old Man continued. "This family, I guess they lived right next to a lake. Just a tiny little thing, but just deep enough. Found their cute little boat smack dab in the middle of it, with nobody on board."

The boy reeled over this information for a while, trying to find the significance of it all. The boy left in the night, they find an unmanned boat...

He froze.

"Y-you mean-"

The man nodded slowly. "He killed himself, kid. The boy drowned."

And in that moment, the young boy could have sworn he saw the Old Man smile.


	2. The Keeper's Incitement

Chapter 2: The Keeper's Incitement

"I'd say we're 'bout to get a storm real soon."

The man looked out into the dim sunset, eyes tracing the sky's colours from its thin border of red, to yellow, and finally the large expanse of grey that was sure to fade to black in mere minutes. It was actually a somewhat ugly for a sunset, especially against the dead field below it, long abandoned by farmers after one too many failed crops. But he appreciated the view. At least it was wide and expansive. Besides, he was never personally one to strive for beauty and glamour. All that was really needed was a simple world to please such simple man.

Next to him, another man slouched into a flimsy lawn chair, black-circled eyes staring widely at the tiny rectangle in his hands. His bulky fingers stroked the glowing screen, almost delicately, as if the glass would shatter if he applied any real pressure. He sat there, muscles tense and teeth clenched, not acknowledging his acquaintance at all.

The first man cleared his throat loudly. "' _Why Amos, Ah reckon there's not one cloud in our good Lord's sky,'"_ he said in an offensively mocking southern accent. He glanced again to the left, where the other man continued to give full attention to his sleek new phone instead of Amos' offensive impersonation. "Well, Robert," he then replied to himself, "That sun's been shining for a long time now. The rain's gonna come down soon, and it's gonna come down hard." Still no reaction. " _Why, Ah'll just swaney! Ah do believe ya'll might just be the brightest fellah in these proud American lands,"_ he mocked again, this time with a more ridiculously comical accent.

Robert suddenly began to tap furiously yet on his phone, as if the fate of the world literally rested in his hands. Amos slouched deep into his chair, grumbling some harsh obscenities. "There's a reason I don't bring you people over here. You're all assholes. All of you." The people he referred to were likely his coworkers, a group of men who Amos formed a resentful sort of friendship with. He tolerated them for the sake of making life easier for himself, though no matter how hard he tried he felt no strong fondness for any of them. But they were usually at least entertaining.

Amos rested his head in his hands. "You can leave any time." The other man still didn't look up, let alone move. "Rob!" he finally raised his voice.

"Yeah, I heard you," the other man finally spoke in a faint southern drawl, though he still looked down at the glowing screen. He tapped it a few more times, and then a few more, before finally slipping it into his coat pocket. "And we're not assholes. You're just a bitter old man."

Amos glowered. "I'm forty-four. What are you, forty? Thirty-eight? Don't give me that bullshit. I've heard too much of it."

Robert gave him a strange look, one that appeared almost sad, but not quite. "You've always been old. When I met you, you were old. Bet you were still in your twenties. And I'm getting real sick of it. I've got enough going on right now. I don't need to spend the time I've got left entertaining a man with no sense of humour."

Amos gritted his teeth, holding back the many bitter swears that appeared in his mind. He wanted to yell. He really did. It was not often at all he invited people to his home, especially on a Friday night. But Rob had been insistent only a few hours ago. He had said he needed a distraction, but wouldn't say from what. Amos didn't pry. Instead, he invited the man into his home, even when he wasn't necessarily friends with him at all. But when he tried to start a conversation, the other would be focused on his electronics, worrying on and on about some trivial thing hat was far away from both of them. It was just a frustrating waste of time for them both.

"I thought I told you to leave," Amos said, his voice too level to come from a calm man.

Robert frowned, shaking his head, but then stood up anyways.

"You know, Amos," he said as he walked towards his slightly muddied truck, "I do think you're a good person. I know how much you try not to be. But you-"

Amos swore at him.

Robert nodded simply, opening the door of his truck. "Alright then. Have fun with that storm of yours, Amos," he said half bitterly, but also half sincerely, as if he was just too tired to be mad. Then he stepped in and slammed the door behind him. He was invisible now, the ugly twilight sky darkening the already tinted windows. The truck idled there for a moment, then began to move without stop, and then was gone. Amos was alone.

He reclined into his lawn chair, letting out a deep sigh. That man was wrong about him. He wasn't pretending to not be a good person. He just had no idea what Amos was truly capable of. He considered rude and uncaring by nature, and tried so hard to go against it. Even when selflessness, he found, was incredibly unrewarding and thankless.

It was dark now. The sorry excuse of a sunset had passed even faster than he expected, leaving the sky black and lifeless. The only light was from his home's front porch, which flickered slightly in a golden-yellow hue, almost like a lantern. Amos stretched his legs and then stood up, ready to go inside before he had to admit that night had fallen without him noticing.

And then something caught his eye. Something glowing.

He turned, facing the source of the curious light, but there was nothing. He could see the gravel road leading up to his home, and where it formed into an occasionally driven road leading into the city, and he could see the abandoned field where only weeds and dirt stood. But nothing else. He walked towards the general direction on the light, though he really had no idea where it could have come from. With only a slight glance to steer him, he had no way of knowing if it had been near or far, high or low, real or imaginary. After a few moments, he settled on the latter-most.

But then he saw it. Not the glow, but a small object on the ground, its polished surface standing out against the rough gravel. Amos bent down and picked it up.

Even with the light retreating, he could tell that the phone now had a long hairline crack stretching diagonally from corner to corner. Amos pressed the circular button below the screen, making it grow once more. An image of Robert and his wife appeared, with a thin yet pronounced gash striking across the man's smiling face. The phone told Amos to slide an arrow from left to right to unlock it. He didn't, and the image of the happy couple returned to darkness.

 _You deserved that,_ Amos thought as he slipped the phone into his own pocket. The man had been staring at the thing nonstop for the past two or so weeks, or at least during work. And also after work, as Amos had just witnessed. He seemed almost obsessed with it, maybe even dependant on it. What he could have possibly been doing on it was completely beyond Amos. But whatever he was doing, he could survive without for one weekend. Give him a chance to act like a normal, more sociable human being for a change, not that Amos himself admitted to be an expert on the matter. But excuses aside, he wasn't going to hunt Robert down just to deliver his phone to him. He had many better thing to do with his time than deal with himagain.

Amos stepped into his house. Robert could wait until Monday. And that crack was his own fault, no matter what he might insist.

X

Everyone knew by Sunday morning. Or at least everyone who cared to know. Maybe it was on the news, or in the paper, but Amos didn't bother watching or reading it. For him, all he needed was the grapevine; the few people who thought to contact him. He supposed he was grateful, if for no other reason than to not be out of the loop once the weekend was over and everyone would still be buzzing about it.

He took a sip of his steaming coffee, which had been freshly poured by himself. It tasted earthy, but also very, very bitter. He never bothered mixing it with cream or sugar, he could never really be bothered. He didn't like the taste of it, he never did, but part of him enjoyed the routine of drinking it throughout the day. It was oddly satisfying, in a strange way, like he had something to look forward to even when he could never actually enjoy it. If he were younger, he would probably try to find some deep psychological reasoning behind this. Now, he just drank his coffee.

He leaned his back against the kitchen counter. Across from him was the table, sparsely decorated with useless clutter but still bare enough to avoid cleaning it. His eyes immediately landed on Robert's phone, which still hadn't moved since he last saw it's owner. On that night, he really thought nothing of holding onto it throughout the weekend - at least it was him and some stranger - but now, thirty-six hours later, he felt just a little bit sick about it. Not that he actually needed the phone anymore.

Suicide. Gunshot in the head, apparently. Just that Friday night, maybe a few hours after he and Amos spoke. Luckily it was the man's wife who found him and not their teenage daughter. But that didn't make it any less tragic.

Amos took another sip of his coffee. He wasn't exactly mourning over it. He was not happy, not at all, but not quite as miserable as many others probably were. The man wasn't a friend. But he was a coworker, and he got to know him well enough to know that he was a decent human being. A good husband and a good father, from what he could tell. So he was a better human being than Amos, in many ways. But still, they weren't close. Not close enough to weep, and not close enough to really catch on to warning signs of depression. Not that he was very good at either of those to begin with.

But he really shouldn't be holding onto his phone anymore. He really should give it to Robert's wife, or maybe even the police. For all he knew, that phone held a suicide message. For all he knew, the man could have been typing it out while at his own house. Something about that seemed incredibly disturbing. Unlikely, but still disturbing.

But was it really _that_ unlikely?

Robert had been doing something on his phone the entire short time he was at Amos' house. He had assumed the man was simply texting somebody more interesting than himself, like a friend or family member. But thinking back, he had seemed very, very focused on what he was doing. And extremely tense, as if the gun was already being held against his head. But Amos had been too angry, or maybe too disinterested, to give it much thought at all. But in hindsight, Robert was probably doing something much more interesting than he had assumed.

Yes, he would probably be giving it to the police.

After he looked at the phone himself, of course. Just to make sure.

Amos sat down at the kitchen table, setting down his half-empty cup of coffee beside him as he dragged the shiny black phone in front of him. He pressed the little round button below the screen, and again the image of Robert and his wife appeared, the single hairline crack just as noticeable as when it first appeared. He swiped the arrow to the right, and he was allowed into the home screen.

 _Not even password protected,_ Amos mused as he searched through the device, tapping on the different icons in search of something bleak enough to warrant a drive to the police station. He struggled for a while, unaccustomed to phone's layout, looking at everything that Robert could have written something in. What he found did not spark his interests at all.

Oh, and for those of you just skimming through this story while wondering why I'm talking about these random people instead of Ben Drowned, now's the part where you should start paying attention. But don't expect a heads up every time I mention him. Warnings like this are really distracting for the people who actually read for the story.

Eventually Amos stumbled upon the text messages. From what he could tell, Rob had been receiving texts from an unsaved number. And apparently he had been communicating to this person on that Friday night. Amos was half-tempted at this point to turn the phone back off and move on with his life, but he ultimately decided to read the texts. They were the last ones he ever sent. And since he was not communicating with a saved contact, the recipient may not have been close enough to have received police questioning. Or so he told himself.

The oldest texts seemed to be from the previous Monday. He started reading from there, since there were not too many texts overall.

 **?: Hello.**

 **Robert: Who is this**

 **?: Guess.**

 **Robert: I'm really not in the mood for guessing**

 **?: But you already know.**

There was a short break after this. The other person texted again later in the day.

 **?: Do you hear it?**

 **?: Answer me.**

 **?: Answer me.**

 **Robert: How the fuck did you get my phone number**

 **?: I am your phone.**

 **Robert: I thought you were in my computer.**

 **?: I am everything.**

Amos leaned in closer to the screen. It was starting to seem like these texts were unsolicited. Maybe some computer-obsessed kid with more skill than he has friends, deciding to randomly harass people by hacking phones and computers.

 **?: Do you hear it?**

 **Robert: Hear what**

 **?: The music.**

 **Robert: What music**

 **Robert: How the fuck did you do that**

 **?: Practicality.**

 **?: It's entertaining.**

 **?: Try to ignore me.**

The next bundle of texts didn't happen until Wednesday. Whatever happened on Tuesday was a mystery, but the fact that this mystery hacker was also in the man's computer made him think that something was missed.

 **?: Have you figured out the secret?**

 **Robert: You knew that, you re in my computer**

 **Robert: Stop showing me that statue**

 **?: You don't know.**

 **Robert: Just give me a straight answer already I'm tired of this**

 **Robert: Just tell me already**

 **Robert: Tell me**

 **Robert: BEN!**

 **Robert: Fuck you**

So he knew the name of the one who was texting him. Maybe they knew each other personally? Or maybe this 'Ben' person told him on his computer at some point. Amos couldn't think of a solid reason why, though. Saying his name, even only his first one, made it easier for him to be tracked down. Which was a big deal, considering this was unquestionably harassment and very much illegal.

The next texts occurred a few hours later.

 **Ben: You're interesting. The last few have been boring. Glad you've lasted this long.**

 **Ben: You're ignoring me.**

 **Ben: I know you're on your computer.**

 **Ben: I won't stop until you answer.**

 **Robert: I'm not going on that website**

 **Ben: Cleverbot keeps it simple. Structured. You like it.**

Cleverbot? Amos had heard of that somewhere, he was certain. He made a mental note to Google it later.

 **Robert: Don't tell me what I like or don't**

 **Ben: But you do.**

 **Ben: If only you could play.**

 **Robert: What,**

 **Ben: This is only part of the game. The real one is more entertaining.**

 **Robert: You think this is a game**

 **Ben: Yes. Very fun. Especially you.**

 **Ben: But it's not the real game. It's better with the real game.**

 **Robert: Zelda?**

 **Ben: Yes.**

 **Robert: But what does his have to do with any of this ice never played a video game in my life**

 **Ben: Hmm...**

 **Robert: WHAT**

Ben never gave a reply, or at least not via text message. They started texting again on Thursday night - though technically it was Friday morning.

 **Robert: You killed him, didn't you**

 **Ben: Many people. Which one?**

 **Robert: Ben. You killed him. Took his name**

 **Ben: Maybe. Won't tell that information to you.**

 **Robert: Why not**

 **Ben: Because.**

 **Robert: Very mature**

 **Robert: So how did Ben die**

 **Ben: He drowned.**

 **Robert: How**

 **Ben: Won't tell that to you.**

 **Robert: Why**

 **Ben: It is reserved for another.**

 **Robert: Who**

 **Ben: Another who asks.**

 **Robert: How many have asked before**

 **Ben: All.**

 **Robert: How many of those people are still alive**

 **Ben: You're getting scared. How cute.**

 **Ben: Get some sleep, Robert.**

Robert may or may not have actually gone to sleep that night. Amos had no way of knowing. But the following texts from Friday morning seemed to suggest that maybe he did, and immediately regretted it.

 **Robert: Stop controlling m dreams**

 **Ben: Am I?**

 **Robert: I never have nightmare s especially about your stupid fucking cult**

 **Ben: Careful.**

 **Robert: Or what**

 **Ben: It could be real.**

 **Robert: Why are you doing this to me**

 **Ben: You know why.**

After that, all that was left was his final string of texts - the last ones he would ever send. The ones he had sent while visiting Amos only two days ago. His last legacy.

 **Ben: Don't try to hide.**

 **Ben: You know you can't.**

 **Ben: The Moon Children will always watch you.**

 **Ben: Always.**

 **Ben: Always.**

 **Ben: Always.**

 **Ben: Always.**

 **Robert: How are you doing that**

 **Ben: You know how.**

 **Robert: Why**

 **Ben: I thought we finished that part of the game.**

 **Robert: This is not a game**

 **Ben: Yes it is.**

 **Robert: You're ruining my life**

 **Ben: I know.**

 **Robert: Please stop this**

 **Ben: No.**

 **Robert: I have a wife and daughter. They need me.**

 **Ben: You made this happen.**

 **Robert: How**

 **Ben: You know how.**

 **Robert: But I don't.**

 **Ben: Then it will continue.**

The final text was sent only a few minutes later.

 **Ben: Goodbye, Robert.**

And then Robert died, and the conversation ceased.

Amos turned the phone off, erasing the images on the screen from his vision but certainly not from his mind. Truly, he had understood very little of what he had just read. But clearly there was more going on in the man's life than the messages on his phone. He had been plagued by an incredibly disturbed person who went by the name 'Ben', who had been constantly tormenting him for at least five days. There was vague mention of a statue, a murder, a cult, a video game, and so much more that did not relate at all. It was like trying to solve a whole puzzle when only given pieces that don't fit together.

But it was clear this Ben person, whoever he was, had something to do with Robert's suicide. Amos needed to give the phone to the police. This added an entirely new layer to a seemingly mundane suicide.

But he knew he wasn't going to tell the police.

Amos reached out and grabbed a small notepad and pen from the table's sparse clutter. The top piece of paper was a half-empty grocery list. He ripped it off without any hesitation and started on a new, blank sheet. He wasn't sure exactly what he was writing down, but he knew he needed a list of some sort to keep him focused. He wrote down the first thing that popped into his head, something he had found strangely familiar.

 _\- Cleverbot_

It would probably be easy enough to find out what that is. But the next topic of research he thought of would certainly be much harder, mainly because of its vagueness. But he wrote it down anyways, because he he was already grasping at straws.

 _\- Moon Children_

He tapped the back of the pen on the notepad. What else was mentioned in those texts that could possibly lead to answers? Ben was being incredibly vague, to the point where even Robert, who was given the firsthand experience of whatever it was that happened, seemed perplexed. He had nothing to go off of.

Except maybe one thing.

Amos hated it, though. He didn't want to write it down, or acknowledge it. But it was the closest thing he had to another piece of the puzzle. So he forced himself to write down the only clue as to who this Ben person could be.

 _\- Ben (drowned)_

Three things. Three possible leads to help him discover whatever chaos he was getting himself wrapped up in. Three reasons a good man had to die. Three things that could possibly take him to Ben. Or, more likely, three ginormous wastes of time.

Amos took another sip of his coffee, and then dumped it into the sink. It had gone cold.


	3. The Keeper's Specialty

Chapter 3: The Keeper's Specialty

So this was it.

It was different than what he imagined, though really he didn't know why. Perhaps he assumed there would be something outwardly defining about it, something that would mark its significance among any other cartridge. But here it was, in his hands. The dull gilt casing had been weathered slightly over the years but still remained somewhat impressively intact. The label, however, had been completely worn off, save for a few flecks of paper clinging here and there to the case. In its place, the word "Majora" had been written with a black Sharpie pen, but even that was beginning to fade away.

It didn't look haunted, but according to the Old Man, things rarely ever did.

"You ready, kid?" the Old Man asked. He looked up, seeing his mentor towering over from where he knelt. The weak lighting of the alter room shadowed his face almost completely, but he could tell he had that sly smile he wore whenever something exciting was about to happen.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Probably not? This still seems like a bad idea, to be honest. I mean, this is kind of impo-"

"Important?" the Old Man interrupted. He then laughed. "Why do you think we're doing this? I can't think of one better person to do this for me." He then crouched down, slowly, to not cause any damage to his aged body. Now looking eye to eye, the younger man could see the smile, just as it looked in his mind.

The younger man frowned. "But," he hesitated, "I'm not you. And there's so much that could go wrong. What if I..." he forced himself to trail off. There were so many things he could do to ruin everything that counting them would take more time than anyone had. He'd been imagining each and every one he could think of since he was first told of this day's coming, and even then he knew that there were many scenarios left unexplored. He wasn't sure if leaving those possibilities unturned was healthy for relieving his tensions or would lead to a devastating miscalculation due to unpreparedness.

The Old Man laughed. "Don't go worrying about that. You've been practising those spells, haven't you?" The younger man nodded, and the Old Man clapped his hands and smiled. "See, you'll be fine!"

It wasn't the spells he was concerned about. He had spent night after night using his gift of defying reality in preparation for this. Some incantations were unable to be studied as much as others considering the nature of them, but he was still able to practice them all to some degree. He'd even gone out of his way to download a not-quite-legal version of the Zelda game on his computer, just so he could be more familiar with the virtual world when seen from the inside. Really, of all the things he feared, a magical slip-up was far from the worst. And he was not one to be overconfident.

"So," the Old Man said with a grin, "You ready _now?"_

The younger man stared at the cartridge in his hands. It was so small, so inconspicuous. It was so hard to believe a spirit so powerful and so deadly could be calling it home. Slowly he nodded, and let out a shaky breath. He placed the game on the floor between where the two of them both knelt.

Then began the work. The blood raced through his body, his heart forcing it outwards and then letting more inside. He listened to the soft beating, focusing on the flow of the precious liquid.

Tha-thump.

Tha-thump.

In-out.

In-out.

Even and rhythmic. Faster than normal, but that shouldn't matter. It could be a lot worse, he assured himself. He focused all of his attention on the movement in his veins, feeling the energy it used up, the energy it created, and the raw energy imbued within it. The latter was the one he needed. He then paid full attention to that particular energy. Using all the tricks he had been taught since the age of twelve - certain specific mindsets that he eventually caught on to but couldn't begin to actually explain to another - he willed the inherent power away from the flow of his blood.

All this happened in a matter of seconds. At this point, he could see his hands glowing with a white aura, visual proof that he had successfully channelled this energy without killing anything. In his peripheral vision, he could see the Old Man's hands glowing as well, ready to perform the actual spell.

Wasting no time, the younger man began to direct part of the energy to the cartridge. The flimsy case immediately became cloaked in the bright glow, ensuring its participation in the spell. The spell itself was hard to describe in great detail, even to the few in the world able to use such witchcraft. It wasn't a traditional incantation most associated with magic, like advanced alchemy or the elemental arts. It was most closely related to teleportation - multi-universal transportation, to be more specific. Warping from realm to realm was incredibly complicated, however. The young man once doubted that even his older mentor was able to perform it. But, according to the Old Man, it was much more simple when that world was man-made. Instead of visualizing an entire intricate universe, one would only need to focus their magic on the 'buttons and wires,' as the Old Man put it.

Considering that his mentor knew nothing about technology beyond a basic typewriter, the younger man had no clue how he was able to figure all this out. But with something as valuable as that cartridge, the effort must have been entirely worth it.

So just as he was taught to do, and just as he practised many times before, he direct his magical energy not on the outside of the cartridge, but within it, where the small circuit board rested. Small, but far from insignificant. Slowly but not too slowly he added more and more magical energy to the circuit board, making an unearthly light shine through the thin protective casing. More and more and more, oh so steadily, oh so precise.

And then, when he finally had no more raw magical energy left, he gave even more. He offered what still remained in is bloodstream: the energy it used up and the energy it created. And along with it, the body it belonged to.

At last, the easiest part was over.

X

The first thing he noticed was the silence. Most games, or at least the ones he had practised with, were constantly playing music or ambient sounds. Even his emulation of Majora's Mask would play music. But here, there was nothing. No sound at all.

Already, he could tell this game was different from the others.

He found himself in the centre of a strange looking town. It was a somewhat small looking place, with buildings either too old-fashioned or just plain weird looking to actually exist in a modern American town. But this wasn't modern at all, nor was it American or even on Earth. This, he had long since learned, was a fictional place called Termina. Clock Town, to be more specific. Aptly named, considering he arrived facing a giant clock tower that stretched so high it literally almost touched the moon.

It looked the same as the emulated version he practised on. In fact, this was exactly where he would usually arrive when he entered it. How lucky. He'd hate to get lost somewhere, especially now that there was also a powerful spirit existing somewhere in this manufactured universe. For all he knew, he could be being watched at that very moment.

"Hey! You just gonna stand there?"

He quickly whipped around, seeing the grinning face of the Old Man right in front of him. He let out a small, short sigh of relief. The elder laughed out loud, obviously noticing his sudden jumpiness.

As the younger of the two recovered from the slight embarrassment, he saw the Old Man glancing noticeably towards the two oversized doors at the clock tower's base, leading inside. From what he remembered from his emulation, that was where a single NPC would be - their name escaped him - and beyond that, the beginning of the game, which had nothing but a dreary looking woodland forest. Nothing interesting at all. Especially nothing that could entertain a restless spirit. The younger man began to stare at the doorway as well, though with slight confusion and scepticism.

"So," he spoke up, "Where are we going? He's not in there, is he?"

"In the clock tower? Nope." He snickered slightly. "Would'a thought so, though, since it always looks so boring in there. But seems like he's in that tiny forest this time. He'll hang around just about anywhere in this place. You'll figure that out soon enough," he then smiled and winked with his good eye. He wasn't sure if that was supposed to comfort or terrify him. Probably the former, but it wound up achieving an uncomfortable combination of both.

Despite his nerves, he took a hesitant step towards the clock tower doors, and then another. But before he could take a third step, the Old Man grabbed his arm. "Hold on!" He held on. He turned around to face the elder who was still smiling. "You might wanna walk there, and I'll let ya if it's what you want, but I know the way there is a bit more than walking. Call me lazy, or maybe boring, but I'd rather just warp."

The younger one blinked. "Oh. Right." His heart dropped slightly, mourning the missed opportunity to stall and collect himself. He was about to actually meet the protector of the Moon Children. The spirit that dedicates its afterlife to protecting the dignity and overall safety of the organization. And not only would he meet him, but he would finally take over the Old Man's role as the Keeper. Not an easy task, to say the least. Being a spirit, and a child spirit at that, much skill and effort would be needed just to keep him in line. After all, it is in a ghost's nature to spread its chaos and misery indiscriminately. He could easily turn against the Moon Children without even trying. And to make matters even worse, anyone familiar with Jadusable's tragedy knows that this entity in particular was a spectacularly manipulative liar.

For the Old Man and his seemingly infinite wisdom, being the Keeper must have been simple. But for his pupil, who had only been training for thirteen years, even the thought of it was anything but.

He survived difficult training. He completed the Moon Children's rites of passage. He even killed his own father. But this was more stressful than them all.

"So," the Old Man spoke up, "Are we going now?"

The younger man offered a trembling nod. "Y-yeah, sure..."

For whatever reason, the Old Man did not acknowledge the obvious nervousness. "Wonderful!" He clapped his hands together in excitement. "I'll do this spell myself. I'mthe one who can see him, after all." Without wasting a second, his hands began to glow, more and more, quickly engulfing them both. A bright flash, and then they were gone.

X

There was music now. He wasn't exactly sure what to make of that.

At least it was pleasant, he decided. Not the music usually associated with the infamous spirit. No, this was quite pleasant, and undoubtedly being played from beginning to end instead of the other way around. It was very slow and serene, though still somewhat sorrowful. Yet even still, it sounded very beautiful. Perhaps it was the pleasant sound of the ocarina playing it that gave it its graceful tone.

Now he was in the woods. Compared to Clock Town, it was much more dreary despite the lack of a scowling moon. The background seemed to be kept in shadow, and the foreground washed in grey. The only thing close to actual life were the specks of light floating through the air. Were they fairies? Fireflies? Dust motes? There was no way to really tell, but as long as they made the lands look somewhat pretty, he wouldn't question it. The actual trees he could interact with were sparse yet ginormous. There was one with a tunnel carved into it, which would lead to another, and another, until eventually leading to the clock tower. Another tree was not actually a tree at all, but a stump. Still, it was much taller than himself, and much higher than he could climb. Despite its amazing size, it looked like it had been sawed off, leaving the top completely flat. Either the work of giants or graphical limitations.

It looked dismal. Though, he had to admit, the calming music was giving it a different feeling. While he remembered it feeling sad and desolate in his earlier play-through, this seemed somewhat spiritual and tranquil.

Wait, was this song even in the game?

"Hey, Old Man," he asked, "Do you know what song this is? I don't thi-" he stopped himself as he turned around, seeing that his old mentor was not there beside him. He glanced around, but saw nothing at all. No signs of human life. Nothing besides himself, anyways. The woods suddenly were a lot more empty.

This was exactly where they were going. This was where the Old Man meant to warp them both. So why would he be the only one to arrive, especially since he was not the one performing the spell? He glanced around again. Still nowhere to be seen. He could feel his heart begin to beat faster again. He must have done something wrong. He must have moved when he was supposed to stay still, or even let his own magic escape by accident. But the Old Man must have been okay. He must have. But he wasn't there. He was gone. But where? He glanced around again, and again, getting more and more frantic. He became so caught up in his worries that he never noticed the music stop.

"It's called 'Fi's Gratitude _.'"_

That wasn't the Old Man.

The younger man froze. He now remembered, far too late, that there was something else worth fearing. His body tensed, eyes darting wildly.

"From Skyward Sword," the voice continued. It sounded quite young, like an older child's, yet the tone somehow created the illusion of maturity. "Certain people didn't like that one. But I did. Don't think I could ever dislike a Zelda game."

This was bad. This was very very bad. He couldn't do this without the Old Man. This person - no, this _creature_ \- would immediately become the bringer of his demise, and the Moon Children's only method of defence would be lost forever. He needed his mentor. He needed-

No. He would not think like that. He couldn't. There was too much at stake for him to crack under the pressure so soon. This is what he had been training for. If the Old Man said he was ready, then he was ready. He let out the breath he didn't know he was holding and stood up tall.

"I'm up here, by the way. Don't think you noticed."

The young man furrowed his eyebrows. So he was in the air? He scoured the sky - a grey, murky sky lacking both sun and moon - but saw nothing. He lowered his gaze to where the few tangible trees were. He didn't need to search much longer after that. He was standing right on top of the oversized tree trunk, peering down at him.

Peering with his red, glowing eyes. It was hard to believe they had gone unnoticed. The unnatural pupils were quite small in size, but they were bright enough to cut clean through the thick haze and bear into him with clean precision. Those eyes were not natural, even for a ghost. And of course the rest of him looked just as strange, or at least he would be if seen by one unfamiliar with that particular spirit's nature. He held a slight resemblance to the protagonist of the game he lived within, with green clothing, blonde hair, and pale skin. However, who played the game could immediately see a difference. His skin was much fairer than it should have been, his hair too dishevelled and knotted, and most noticeably, he did not wear an iconic tunic but rather a simple green sweater with an indistinguishable dark pattern on it. Unearthly eyes aside, he still looked less like the Hero of Time himself and closer to a normal everyday preteen.

It was hard to tell from the distance and the fog, but it seemed as if the boy was smiling at him. Whether it was a welcoming smile or something far more cruel, however, he could not tell. So far, his voice had not displayed any malice, but the young man knew better than to trust someone like him so easily. "You must be the new guy," he said. It didn't sound spiteful, nor friendly. More like he was simply making a statement.

"Yeah. Yes," he said, quickly correcting his informality. "And you're the famous Ben Drowned." He tried to keep his own statement just as neutral as the other had.

"Famous?" Ben pondered. "Interesting."

And then he disappeared.

The young man jumped slightly, hearing the same voice again coming from behind him. "So what kind of nickname did they give you?" He whipped around, seeing the child somehow standing only feet away from him, well past his invisible bubble of safety. He resisted the urge to back away.

"What do you mean?" he asked carefully, hoping that asking it would not imply weakness. He needed the upper hand. Always.

Ben held a deadpan expression. "Insidiae. Nekko. Duskworld. Kelbris. Dumb things like that. You people love your aliases for some reason."

The young man probably would have argued this, calling those names all fakes, had he not recognized one. Kelbris was a famous prophet said to have heard the voice of Luna. Much of the organization's current state is thanks to the words he heard, and the man is still very well-respected even after his unfortunate death. The other names Ben listed did not seem familiar, though if one of them was real then there was a decent chance that the rest were just as real, if not quite as esteemed.

For a moment he considered keeping his pseudonym a secret, but decided that would be both superfluous and counterproductive. "You will call me Ruby," he said, making note to say 'will' instead of 'can.'

For a moment, Ben's expression was unreadable. "Hmm," he sounded quietly, arms folding across his chest. His eyes scanned up and down, red lights moving freely inside the otherwise hollow sockets. 'Ruby' realized, with a hint of dread, that he was being scrutinized. "A bit girly," he finally said, "But that's not too bad, compared to others. Short, memorable, and easy to pronounce. I think rubies might be pretty strong, too." He then smiled a strange sort of crooked smirk. "I think I like it. Good job."

The strange sense of relief he felt in that moment could only be outshone by the obvious degrading overtone. Ruby knew that he should have snapped, or scolded, or something. But part of him wanted to start out on good terms with Ben to avoid future conflict. But another part of him knew that the situation would probably force them to be enemies anyways. Part of him didn't want to be constantly policing the spirit on silly things like phrasing. Part of him felt like he was being a complete pushover, letting himself get walked all over. Part of him felt bad for punishing someone who looked so young and even innocent. Part of him knew this ghost was much older than 12, and knew that he was in every way a killer. Part of him had faith that, despite everything, this person still deserved kindness. Part of him understood that such kindness could ultimately end the Moon Children entirely.

Mostly, he was just tired, frustrated, and lost.

Looking back now, Ruby had a real habit of over-thinking things. It probably kept him alive, all things considered.

"Stop looking like that."

Ruby suddenly lurched away from his thoughts, now seeing the child-like spirit frowning at him with his arms still crossed. He glared at him in an irritated sort of way; the same expression one would wear when their patience wore too thin, or a number of small annoyances were starting to take their toll. Who knew those eyes could still be so expressive? "Looking like what?" Ruby asked, unaware he was looking like much of anything.

Ben shot him an annoyed glance. " _That_ look. The one you have right now."

Ruby blinked. He really had no idea what else to say. If he was wearing any sort of expression that might irritate or offend the spirit, it must have been a very small detail for him to be unaware. "I... I think that might just be my face..."

The ghost sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. But then, when looking off to the side, he froze for a brief moment. Then his posture changed, just slightly, but still noticeable enough to raise suspicion. His arms remained crossed at his chest, but his shoulders began to slump, and his head bowed down ever so slightly. His eyes glanced around for a moment before making eye contact with Ruby once again. "You're scared of me."

Of all the things that could have been said, that was far from what he expected. "What?" he blurted out. Ben remained in his new, slightly more submissive posture, but his expression was unreadable. "I'm not scared of you. Not at all," Ruby lied somewhat convincingly.

Ben darted his eyes again, giving Ruby the idea to do the same. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary, but the ghost still looked bothered. "Good," Ben said, "'Cause you shouldn't be," he raised his bowed head just a little bit higher. "That's not how it works." His smirk was so small it was barely noticeable. But still just enough.

Ruby opened his mouth, only to immediately bite his own tongue. It only then dawned on him that Ben was may have been trying to play some sort of mind game with him. "What's going on, Ben?" he spoke sternly, "What are you doing?" His voice, as soft as it was naturally, managed to sound somewhat commanding and powerful, to his own surprise.

The smirk was immediately erased. What was left was an expression that could be best described as 'displeased'. The glow in his eyes almost seemed to flicker a bit. "He's testing us," he said softly, maybe even dejectedly. Ruby was taken aback by the sudden change in attitude, eyes widening. This was the first time Ben sounded less than in complete control. "Probably having a good laugh about it. And I think I know who's the butt of the joke."

"I see," said Ruby, who was not quite sure what the other was referring to at all. But still he nodded confidently, hoping that Ben was finally starting to let his guard down, assuming it was up from the beginning. In truth, he had no idea what to make of the boy at all, or if the way he was acting right then was anything like how he usually acted. All he knew was that this ghostly entity was very very peculiar.

He was probably going to be a handful.

"I see the two of you have gotten yourselves acquainted already."

 _That_ was the Old Man. Ruby whipped his head to the side, now seeing his old mentor standing a few feet away with a wide crooked grin. He was sure his own face looked nearly the same. He nodded excitedly.

The Old Man let out a loud guffaw that echoed across the now silent woodlands. Ruby let out a sigh of relief, glad to finally be hearing that familiar laugh once again. He had been so wrapped up in Ben and not making any mistakes that he had no opportunity to properly worry for the others well-being. He knew he was probably smiling like an idiot. Nothing could go wrong now.

The laughter eventually dwindled into a slight chuckle. "So what do you think, Ben?" said the Old Man, "You gonna beg me to stay a little longer?" Ruby turned towards the young spirit.

He looked absolutely livid.

His hands, still crossed tightly across his chest, were balled up into fists. His whole body looked tense and still like a statue. The glow of his eyes brightened, his deep glare burning into the Old Man with passion. "He can stay," he spat out, clearly making an attempt to keep a clam, level voice and clearly failing. The boy, as young as he appeared, actually seemed quite intimidating in that moment. As if at any moment he would turn the entire universe against them both and have them destroyed without a second's thought. Which he could probably do, if the two of them were not also powerful in their own ways.

The Old Man laughed. "I thought you'd say so! Now what do you say, kid? Think you can handle it?"

Ruby clenched his teeth together only to avoid having his jaw hang open. His brain was turning out a million questions per second, all directed towards the boy in green standing right next to him. The spirit had acted strange before then, no doubt about it. But for the most part he had chalked it up to simple mind games, all trying to manipulate him in some way. But what he had just seen appeared to be pure anger fuelled by nothing. The Old Man did nothing. Nothing of offence, anyways. So why would Ben react that way when he finally appeared. Whatever the answer was, it was completely and totally beyond his comprehension.

"Hey kid! You still in there?" the Old Man snickered. Ruby felt himself blushing.

Ben, however, was much less amused. He groaned audibly, still scowling. "Can we just get this over with?" he said impatiently, as if he had anywhere to actually be. Maybe he did. But that didn't make it any less rude.

The Old Man's smile widened. "Ah, right. I nearly forgot about that, to be honest. Didn't think you'd be so eager about it, seeing how much you loved it last time."

Ben huffed. "The sooner you're done here, the better."

The smile softened just a bit. "I'll miss you too, Ben." He then turned back to Ruby. "You remember the spell for the eyes, right?"

Ruby nodded hesitantly. He knew _of_ the spell well enough, but whether or not he was entirely confident about performing it was another question completely. It was, according to the Old Man, simpler than one would assume, but he said that about every spell. The idea of this spell was that the recipient would have their eyes replaced with new enchanted ones. While the new eyes would seem exactly the same for said recipient, the one who casts the spell would be able to use the eyes as a sort of permanent tracking device. They would always know exactly where the other person was, no matter how far they were or how fast they were going. Unfortunately, there were reasons it could not truly be practised beforehand. The spell basically destroyed the original eyes, which is incredibly painful for the recipient no matter what. On top of that, the new eyes did not look the same as the old ones, and while the true effects of the spell could be reversed, the way they looked could not be. For the rest of their lives, or afterlives, their eyes could only be black bottomless voids, the darkness only interrupted by two red glowing pupils.

"Just do it already," said Ben, whose patience was clearly dwindling. He finally uncrossed his arms from his chest, letting them fall to his sides.

The Old Man, of course, chuckled. "You'd better start doing it, before he gets too cranky," he joked. Ben shot another nasty look at him, which he ignored fully.

Ruby let out a long, shaky breath. He stepped forward, towards the spirit, so that his face was well within arms reach. He scanned him and down, noticing how he had now taken a rather defensive stance. He also now noticed more clearly the dark patterns on the front of his green sweater. It wasn't an abstract design at all. They were stains.

Bloodstains.

"Calm down, Ben," the Old Man called out. "Maybe it won't hurt the second time." Although he couldn't see him, Ruby could practically hear the grin plastered on his mentors face.

So if it isn't obvious, the rest of this chapter might be a tad bit graphic for some people. This is your chance to leave. The reason I include these details at all is because, on the off chance that someone actually believes my story, that person needs to know the entire truth. I know most of you will just assume this is just another dime-a-dozen Creepypasta fanfiction, and I don't hold anything against you for that. But I can't lie about what happened just because someone won't like it. Trust me, I'm not recounting this because I want to.

Ruby stared at Ben's face. The spirit's expression was unreadable. He was sure his own was much more transparent. He breathed deeply, feeling the magical energy once again channelling to his hands. He looked into his glowing eyes, watching their faint rhythmic flickering. They were almost calming, in a strange way. Like a small candle in a dark room.

And then he reached inside.

Everything turned to chaos.

He just needed to focus. Just remember the steps - simple, easy steps. Just keep thinking about the process, the flow of magic, the transformation of both energy and matter. Just undo the Old Man's sorcery and replace it with his own. Remember how to drain away the old and replace with the new, how to meld his magic into the eye. If he focused on the spell, he wouldn't notice anything else.

He wouldn't notice anything. Not the screams, even though they sounded more agonized than anything he'd ever heard before – including his own initiation into the Moon Children. He paid no heed to how they echoed across the woods and stung in his own ears. No, no, he wouldn't listen to it. He was too focused.

Though, admittedly, he was shocked by the blood. It turned out he could somehow inflict so much pain that he caused a bloodless creature to bleed. But that was magic. Still he ignored it, even when it poured onto his hand and down his arm. He was concentrating too hard to notice it soak the dead boy. Even when it poured down Ben's face and into his mouth, occasionally turning the agonized screams into pathetic, choked gurgles.

Finally, after taking much longer than he would have liked, he was done. He took his hand out of the socket, freeing Ben from his grasp. The spirit was still shouting, but much more weakly this time. He was bent over, facing the ground.

"...Ben?" Ruby said softly, very softly. Shakily, Ben glanced back up at him with his free eye while clutching the other, his face caked in red. This was no longer the demigod he spoke to earlier. This person had no power in him.

And then he stuck his hand inside the other socket.

No time to regret. No time to doubt. He just needed to get it right. Focus focus focus. Even when Ben's legs finally buckled, sending him to the ground, he still did it perfectly. He bent right down to the forest floor with him, his hand never leaving the gushing socket. He ignored the child's pain. He had no idea he was even hurt.

Except he did.

And it made him nearly break.

After what felt like two separate eternities, he finally completed the spell on both eyes. He retracted his hand and stood up, leaving the child kneeling on the ground, hands crumpled onto his lap. He made absolutely no sound whatsoever, but his body continued to shudder and tremble as if caught in an icy wind. His face was painted red, with thick streams still flowing from the tattered sockets like gruesome tears. The dark patterns on his green sweater had expanded, now making it look brownish-black with strange green patterns. The rest of the blood fell onto the ground, where it pooled around him.

"Huh," the Old Man mused, "Looks like it does hurt the second time." He was still grinning from ear to ear.

Ben shuddered. "J-just... l-l-leave..." he croaked weakly.

Ruby could hardly believe Ben Drowned, guardian of the Moon Children, could do something 'weak' at all. And because of him, no less. He could barely look at the suffering spirit. He forced his gaze downwards, only to see the same red on his own hands. He winced, and looked back at Ben.

The Old Man shrugged. "If you say so," he said simply. He then turned to Ruby. "You'd better hold onto that cartridge from now on, kid. Don't think he'll want me around again for a long time."

Ruby was just barely listening. He couldn't take his eyes off of Ben.

His fists already glowing with pure magic, the Old Man called out to his pupil. "C'mon, kid. Trust me, you won't want to stick around to see him angry."

But still Ruby ignored him. "Ben?" he said quietly, as if his own voice could cause another wave of pain throughout the spirit's body. "Ben, I... I'm sorry," he said with as much warmth and empathy as he could display. "I'm so sorry," he repeated.

Ben stayed still, his shaking now beginning to ease. He stared down at the ground for what felt like minutes. But then, finally, he turned his head to look directly at Ruby. He still seemed to cry tears of blood, but the light in his eyes, while they should have been no different, now seemed much, much, much brighter than ever before.

"Don't be."

It was like Ben had shot him in the chest.


	4. The Keeper's Memory

Chapter 4: The Keeper's Memory

Serena hated Sundays. Throughout her life, she had heard people complain about Mondays and Wednesdays, but it seemed she stood alone in her distaste for Sunday. And, to be completely honest, she understood completely. Mondays were agonizing, having to revert back to working a good chunk of each day after just being granted much more freedom. Wednesdays weren't much better, though mainly because of that one self-proclaimed jokester who always cheered 'Happy Hump Day!' while grinning ear to ear as if he just said something funny. And of course he would say it every week as if everyone would just forget about it in seven days. That was another pet peeve of hers, but luckily she found many people to agree with her.

But none of that came close to her dread for Sundays. They were always just so agonizingly close to the weekdays that she could never actually enjoy herself the way she could on Saturdays and Friday afternoons. There was a sudden pressure to spend her quickly dwindling free time as preciously as possible. And it wouldn't be so bad if not for a list of minor inconveniences making this impossible. About two years prior the vast majority of her friends, seemingly at the exact same time, began contracting the tragic illness commonly known as pregnancy. These generally resulted in babies, which result in at least eighteen years of being too busy for their amazingly charming friend Serena. Sometimes they could plan an escape for a while, but that was always on Saturdays. So Sundays were lonely days. On her own, she would browse the web (pretty unsatisfying), watch television for a while (nothing was ever on), tidy up her apartment (she kept it clean anyways), or just work (it might as well be Monday then).

Which was why, on Sundays, she usually found herself playing video games all day. In her pyjamas, with her long black hair tied into the messiest of buns, occasionally snacking on something that was either very healthy or could cause immediate hospitalization.

Actually, maybe she _did_ like Sundays.

And of course it was on a Sunday when she found herself in her room, playing on her 3DS while it was still being charged. She was a good way through the Fire Temple, having just defeated the Flare Dancers with the help of her newly acquired Megaton Hammer and the iconic Master Sword. It was hardly a challenge. In fact, so far she had been breezing through Ocarina of Time without any real thought. Probably because it was her all-time favourite game, from her all-time favourite series, by her all-time favourite company. She'd been playing that particular game since she was about ten years old, and continued to play it fifteen years afterwards. Even when she briefly put her controller down in her teenage years, she somehow came back to it later with an eerily perfect memory. She could hunt down all 100 Gold Sculltula's like they were lined up in a row, and quote Sheik's ramblings about time and fate as if said to her a thousand times. It was actually more embarrassing than anything, but she had learned not to talk about it too much in public to avoid embarrassment.

The other Zelda games were no stranger to her either. In her adulthood she grew to admire the earlier classics, like A Link to the Past, The Adventure of Link, and of course the original The Legend of Zelda. She fell in love with the Oracle games, playing Ages more than any other of her hand-held games. She traversed the seas in Wind Waker, took on the form of a beast in Twilight Princess, and soared through the air in Skyward Sword. And of course, how could she forget Link's Awakening, Four Swords Adventures, Minish Cap, Phantom Hourglass, Spirit Tracks, and A Link Between Worlds? She even recently played the spinoff Hyrule Warriors, which, among other wondrous things, gave her a few glimpses of the only one she never played.

Majora's Mask.

It was actually quite silly at this point. It seemed like everyone, even people who were less devoted to the series, wanted Serena to play Majora's Mask. Even though she remembered it being less popular than Ocarina of Time when it came out, now everyone seemed to be raving about it. Every piece of artwork, fan-made or not, now had a scowling moon, or a wide-eyed mask, or a pair of yellow and purple fairies. Many even claimed it was better than Ocarina. So why wouldn't Serena play it?

In the beginning, it was stubbornness. She actually owned the game when she was younger, but refused to play it. She, being her naive and unadventurous former self, was convinced that Ocarina was the perfect game, and wouldn't waste her time with any other Zelda title. Even the people closest to her couldn't nag her enough to give it a shot.

But after a few years of withholding herself, suddenly it became about principle. Ocarina was her game, and Majora was not, even if she technically still owned it. Even if it was silly in retrospect, the logic for many reasons made sense to her twelve-year-old self. So the old Majora's Mask cartridge was given away, so that other people could still appreciate the game.

It's what Ben would have wanted.

Right?

That was when she noticed the words 'Game Over' floating across the darkened screen. She wasn't sure how it happened. In fact, she hadn't been paying attention to the game at all. Which, she realized, was probably why he died in the first place. Serena did not continue. In fact, she snapped the 3DS shut and set it off to the side of the bed.

Ben loved Majora's Mask. Never to the point where he shut himself out to her or her family, but there was certainly a point where became a bit of an obsession. Every day, at least for a short while, he would go on about the new mask he got, or the side-quest he discovered and completed, or even what mini-game he was improving at. He loved Ocarina of Time as well - it _was_ his introduction to Zelda and video games in general, after all - but it was nothing compared to the raw unmitigated passion he held for Majora's Mask. Looking back at that time with an older mind, there must have been something in it that Ben could really connect with. But whatever it was, Serena would never be able to know, despite probably knowing the boy better than anyone else. They shared everything back then, after all. But she was not a psychologist, and would probably fail horribly if she tried to be one, so without Ben being able to actually speak with her anymore, answers like that were lost forever.

But that didn't mean the passion couldn't be replicated. Which was why she felt no real remorse about selling it years after his death. She remembered specifically that it was bought by an old, cheerful man who wanted to give it to his son, or maybe it was his grandson. She had been more than happy giving it away, and still was, knowing that it would be enjoyed by a young and impressionable mind. And for whatever reason, she could still remember how the elder was obviously blind in one eye, and she couldn't help but think the blind eye was staring at her during the entire transaction. Funny how such insignificant details somehow managed to sneak into long-term memories.

However, all that gave no excuse for avoiding the game altogether, especially considering how the 3DS remake had already been out for nearly five months by then. She had pre-ordered Wind Waker HD fully knowing that she already owned the original, and pounced on Hyrule Warriors despite it being a spinoff. But she still ignored that one solitary game for reasons that just seemed silly and childish now. It was in so way morally wrong to play it. There were no actual principles that needed to be following. The game was in no way sacred or even special. Even back as young preteens Ben would constantly remind her of the two empty save files, so he certainly wouldn't have a problem about her playing it. In fact, he would probably be ashamed that after fifteen years Termina remained unsaved by her.

"Note to self," Serena said out loud, which she insisted was only crazy when she _wasn't_ doing it alone, "Find myself a Majora's Mask cartridge." Then she thought for a moment, and needlessly added, "Or get the 3DS version. That's probably better... But not as genuine. Should I get both, or... no, no, too pricey. Unless I can get both second hand for cheap. But do I really need both, since I won't be playing them back to back? But if I like it and want to replay it, I can test out the other version. But which do I play first? The N64 would be more pure, but it might be outdated and turn me off. But the 3DS might have taken too many liberties and ruined it. Except it's gotten good reviews, so maybe I should just-"

Serena suddenly jumped as she heard a sudden inexplicable juddering noise to her left. For exactly one fourth of a second she panicked, thoughts screaming ' _oh god I totally forgot someone was in the room and they saw me talking to myself out of nowhere like a total psycho and they think I'm-'_ but then she recognized the sound to be her phone clattering against the base of her wooden nightstand, announcing a new text in the most unpleasant way it could. She let out a breath, now doubly glad that she was alone and without witnesses, and reached for her phone.

 **Ruby: Hey, do you mind picking me up?**

Of course it was him. And of course that's what he was texted. Serena found herself smiling as she immediately texted back.

 **Serena: Why? You get lost again? :)**

Ruby was her neighbour, living in the apartment across from her. He'd moved in only shortly after she did, so they managed to bond over it and quickly became good friends. Or maybe they bonded over being young barely-adults who had no idea what they were doing at the time. Or maybe they both were just easily approachable people. But there was a very high chance he started knocking on every door in the apartment asking for a ride downtown and Serena was the first to say yes, cursing her forever. Either way, he was a good friend but really needed to invest in a car of his own already. At least he usually used public transit nowadays.

 **Ruby: Ha ha ha**

 **Ruby: *that was a sarcastic laugh**

Serena snickered at that comment, but her smile faded when the next text arrived.

 **Ruby: Really not having a great day. Thought I could walk home, but now it might rain. Are you busy?**

Serena frowned. She glanced over to the closed 3DS to her right, and then back at her phone.

 **Serena: Not really. Just chilling at home being lazy. I'll pick you up. Where are you anyways?**

About a minute passed before Ruby responded.

 **Ruby: Not sure the address. Close to that coffee place with the bird on the front**

 **Serena: Why are you over there? You have coffee**

 **Serena: *hate**

 **Ruby: Like I said, I thought I could walk home. Was just visiting a friend**

 **Serena: Ok then. I know where you are. I'll be there asap**

 **Ruby: Thanks so much. I owe you one**

Serena turned her phone off and set it back on her nightstand. She began to swing her legs off of her bed, but paused when she actually looked down at herself. She had somehow completely forgotten that she was still in her pyjamas, with her hair in a tangled bun and face devoid of her usual makeup. She held back an unladylike swear, realizing she was nowhere near looking presentable enough to be seen by human eyes. She really, really hated Sundays.

X

As expected, she quickly spotted her friend standing outside the coffee shop, his eyes glancing around for a bit before locking onto her old grey Camry. He took a hand out of his jacket's deep pockets and gave a small wave as she parked as close by as she could. Once her car was still, she gave him a brief wave in return before jumping out from the vehicle and jogging over to the front of the shop.

"Hey," she called over to him with an apologetic smile, "Sorry I took so long. I had some stuff I needed to finish doing first," she technically told the truth, though she dare not say what she was doing. As far as anyone was concerned, she was a fully-functioning adult member of society who wore clothes on a constant basis.

Ruby gave her a small smile, but it left almost as quickly as it came. "It's alright." Then, to her surprise, he extended his hand out towards her. She hadn't noticed that he was holding something small with his left hand. "I got you coffee. **Caffè Mocha with Cinnamon Syrup. That's the one you like, right?" His voice sounded tired, but his words sounded genuine. Serena took the brown cup with both her hands, eyes widened in surprise. It was still hot.**

 **"Wow," she said, "I mean, yeah, that's what I usually get. I can't believe you remembered, though." She smiled as she looked up at him.**

 **Ruby just shrugged. "I kind of owe you one, don't I?" Now his voice seemed almost sombre. Serena could tell that there was something wrong. He was never exactly a chatterbox of any kind, but usually he had a bit more to say for himself than he did at that moment. And he often had more of a sense of humour, and would know how to smile and have a good time while in her company. Now it was as if someone had told him that an old friend had passed away. Which, for all she knew, was what actually happened.**

 **"Hey," she spoke in a serious tone, "Is everything alright?"**

 **Ruby paused for a moment. His dark brown eyes seemed to flicker in some distant thought before locking back at her own. "I don't really want to talk about it. It's been kind of a rough day."**

 **Serena frowned. "Oh," was all she could say. She wanted to say more - she wanted to keep on poking and prodding and persisting until every single little problem he ever faced was suddenly squeezed out of him regardless of what he really wanted. She wanted to be his rock even if for no other reason than to be relied on for something. But she knew better. As much as she enjoyed his company, they just weren't those kind of friends. They were the kind of friends that joked around and drove each other places and bought coffee when they had the time. Serena wouldn't mind if their friendship eventually bloomed into something more meaningful, but for now they were this, and staying that way would be just as fine. But that meant respecting his boundaries. Whatever happened didn't matter, because as long as he didn't tell her willingly, she could never know.**

 **But that didn't mean she would ignore him.**

 **Without any real warning, Serena wrapped her arm around Ruby, half-hugging him tightly to her small body. In her mind it seemed like the perfect gesture, but the execution was actually somewhat lacking. First of all, she was still holding her coffee in one hand, so she had to hug him with just one arm while stretching the other away from them both to not spill any on them both. Secondly, the surprise force of the hug made Ruby take a step back, and they both had to reposition themselves awkwardly while still hugging. And lastly, the sudden movement also made something fall out of Ruby's jacket pocket and clatter to the ground.**

 **Ruby pulled away from the hug, picking up the strange object from the ground. Serena backed away from him, blushing at her failed attempt at kindness. "I'm sorry," she said, but Ruby failed to acknowledge her.**

 **However, her embarrassment was soon accompanied by curiosity as she noticed what it was that fell to the ground. It was a cartridge. A Nintendo 64 cartridge to be specific, with a dull golden casing. She found herself taking a step closer, trying to make out the title of the game. "Oh, what's that?" she asked him as he brushed away the dirt and dust on the casing.**

 **But Ruby seemed to misunderstand her. "It's a game. I got it from, um, a friend of mine."**

 **Serena rolled her eyes, still trying to get a good look at the game's title. It seemed like the original sticker had been ripped off, but there was still some sort of writing on it. "No, what I meant was-"**

 **No.**

 **It couldn't be.**

 **The game.**

 ** _That_** **game.**

 **** **But it wasn't just the game. It was the writing. His** **** **writing.**

 ** _"I can't believe you're ripping the sticker off," she said with her arms crossed, looking down at the young boy. The boy was crouched on the floor, holding a cartridge with golden casing. His short fingernails slowly picked away at the corner of the sticker, slowly peeling it away from the surface it was stuck to._**

 ** _Ben looked up at her, his blue eyes hardened with purpose. "It's already falling off," he argued, "I'm just speeding things up. It'll look better this way, anyways."_**

 ** _Serena rolled her eyes. "You could just glue the corners back on, you know._** **That** ** _would actually make it look better."_**

 ** _A clever smirk began to grow on the child's face. It was a smirk he wore often, usually when he was about to do something he knew was wrong. "Too bad it's already off then." And then, pinching the peeled back corner between his fingers, he jerked his hand forwards, sending the sticker flying from its old home. A few flecks of white remained on the base of the cartridge, but otherwise it was completely naked._**

 ** _"I can't believe you," she pretended to be frustrated, but in reality she expected nothing else. Ben was a being of pure stubbornness. Tell him not to do something, and he'll do it twice. "Now it just looks like every game ever. How will we know which one it is now?"_**

 ** _Ben's smirk softened into a gentler smile. "I'm way ahead of you," he said, and then out of his pocket he pulled a thick black Sharpie marker. He turned his gaze back to the cartridge, and without any grandeur he began to spell out a single word - the only word it really needed._**

 **"Majora," Serena said out loud. "You have Majora's Mask." She could hardly believe her eyes. It looked just like his writing. The way it did all those years ago. It couldn't be the same cartridge. Except that it could. It absolutely could.**

 **"Yeah," said Ruby, slipping the cartridge back into his jacket pocket. "It's, uh, it belongs to a friend of mine, but he's letting me borrow it. Just for a while."**

 **"Oh," she muttered, trying to snap herself out of her own trance, "That's good. I bet you'll like it. It's a great game," she said, though she would have no way of knowing if it was actually 'great' or not, but she believed every word she said.**

 **Ruby's eyes narrowed. "Are you feeling okay, Serena? You seem kinda off right now," he said with concern. Serena shook her head.**

 **"No, no. Just tired, I think. C'mon, we'd better get to the car. You were probably right about the rain."**

 **She wanted to say more. She wanted him to poke and prod and persist until every problem was suddenly squeezed out of her. She wanted to have him be her rock even if for no other reason than to have something to rely on. But she knew better. They just weren't the kind of friends that did those things.**

 **He wasn't Ben.**


End file.
